my lucky Millard

Although I want to bite a hole in the sky I also badly want to bite Bill on the arm or something (in a good way) and so I remain in place. I have been offered the fried chicken lunch (how Britney Spears of me to go for this) at the Farmhaus restaurant, a place run by geniuses who give a great value for lunch (ten bucks a head including sweet tea, which is directly from the Lord) but charge the Earth for dinner, and do things like make foams and cocktails involving bitter herbs, and serve bizarrely small portions of brilliant and sometimes bizarre food. It’s like Reverso World for lunch, huge portions, tiny price.

Bill also replaced my lucky Millard, which was sweet of him. We’ve become attached to carrying Millard Fillmore coins with us, believing (as he either is or I just SAY he is) our Luckiest President. There really isn’t any way to tell, but the feel of the Millard in my pants pocket feels just right, and it must be admitted that he has bailed me out before.

We had an exciting morning- we went to see a beautiful old house for sale (and in danger of being demolished) and we opened all of the closets and marvelled over the woodwork, the high ceilings… so glorious. Sadly we are not the ones for that house, not anymore, but I’ll write about it later, and maybe someone who actually lives here will become inspired, and buy it.

It will likely sell for a song; I only wish I’d had a shot at it 15 years ago, but of course it would have been twice the price and unpossible.

More pix later.